


hand in my hand and we promised to never let go (we're walking the tightrope)

by JourEtNuit



Category: RWBY
Genre: F/F, Pre-Relationship, a lot of longing, and some team rwby bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:15:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22040923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JourEtNuit/pseuds/JourEtNuit
Summary: It's election night in Atlas, and Blake and Yang are going out dancing with team FNKI, excited to finally have time to themselves.Their evening doesn't go as planned.
Relationships: Blake Belladonna/Yang Xiao Long
Comments: 12
Kudos: 191





	hand in my hand and we promised to never let go (we're walking the tightrope)

_We’re gonna have fun tonight_ , Yang remembers saying to Blake before they left their dorm room. Now she’s not so sure: this dance club in Mantle looks nothing like what she expected.

She’s used to Vale clubs, with their minimalist industrial decor, throbbing lights, and crowds of people moving to the frenetic rhythm of techno beats. But when Blake and her arrive to the meeting point with team FNKI, all they see is a quiet, plain building with darkened windows and a small, unassuming door.

“Are we in the right place?” Blake asks, looking around her at the deserted streets. “There’s no sign.”

The streetlight behind them flickers ominously. Yang frowns. “I swear, if Neon gave us the wrong address…”

“Hey! You made it!”

They both swivel around to watch Neon and Flynt walking towards them. Neon is wearing an improbable mix of bright pink and flashy yellow. Her shorts, Yang can’t help but notice, are _very_ short.

Flynt, by comparison, looks tame, though very dashing, in a trendy white suit. He tips his hat at the two of them, with a toothy smile. Feeling slightly underdressed in her simple jeans and bomber jacket, Yang flashes him a smile of her own, hoping it’s at least half as charming, and throws an arm around Blake’s shoulders for good measure. “Of course we did. You guys ready to party?”

“You know it,” Flynt says.

“I'm so stocked, we're gonna have so much fun with you two! Let’s gooooo!” Neon bounces on her feet, sauntering towards the door. “Kobalt and Ivory are already inside!”

She grabs Blake’s hand, tugging her along and dislodging Yang’s arm. _Rude_. Blake lets out a small whimper of surprise, turning to look at Yang with a raised eyebrow right before she and Neon disappear behind the club's door. Sudden irritation has Yang clenching her jaw. Flynt sends her a sympathetic look.

“Yeah, Neon can be… a lot, when she’s excited. Seems like she’s really taken a liking to the two of you, huh!”

“Lucky us,” Yang mutters, as Flynt holds the door open to let her in. It doesn’t matter, she reminds herself, quelling her exasperation. In a few minutes, they’ll be surrounded by music and noise and people, and she’ll be able to focus on what she came here for: drinking fancy cocktails, dancing with Blake, forgetting all about the election and Amity Arena and the constant looming threat of Salem.

A tall man with massive shoulders checks her scroll for her age, and asks in a gruff voice if she carries any weapon, before letting her through a dark entryway. She hears muffled music coming from another door at the end of the hallway. Blake and Neon must already be inside. Another, somewhat less intimidating man, takes her jacket to hang in the coatroom. Yang rubs her arms, self-conscious, and tucks her light purple shirt inside her jeans.

“Looking sharp!” Flynt says, with a thumbs-up. “You ready?”

Yang nods. They step inside.

If Yang was surprised by the exterior of the dance club, the interior leaves her even more confused. For one, there are no frantic lights, no pounding beat that you can feel through the sole of your shoes. People wander leisurely between the bar and the smattering of tables, couples dance in the empty space in the middle. It’s _relaxed_ , without the feverish energy she’s come to associate with dancing. But what’s most baffling is the music itself: an actual band of five musicians standing on a small elevated stage, and playing at a brisk pace while a woman sings smoothly into a microphone.

“What _is_ this?” Yang murmurs to herself, awed.

Flynt, who’s walking behind her, bumps her shoulder amicably. “Only the best club in all of Mantle! You’re welcome.”

Neon and Blake are already at the bar, along with the rest of team FNKI, ordering drinks. When Yang gets to them, Blake, holding two bottles by the neck, turns to face her. She hands one to Yang, a small smile lifting the corner of her lips, almost shy. “Here, I got this for you. I hope that’s okay.”

Yang’s heart flutters. It’s a dizzying, destabilizing sensation, as if she’d just stepped onto a tightrope and could fall at any moment. She takes the drink from Blake’s hand. It’s a Sunflower Pop.

“You remember,” she says, softly. That night in Beacon feels like thousands of years ago - entire continents might as well have shifted since then.

“Of course.” Blake’s voice is soft, too, her mouth still curved in a bashful grin. She’s looking at Yang. The singer croons about love in the background ; next to them Neon chats excitedly with Ivory ; Kobalt and Flynt have disappeared into the crowd. All of these details merge into the background of Yang’s perception, insignificant : she’s looking at Blake looking at her, and wondering when they’re gonna find the time to talk about this _thing_ , between them, the obvious, terrifying, amazing _thing_ , that sometimes feel so completely new, and sometimes like it was always there.

Maybe tonight. _We’re gonna have fun tonight_. Yang takes a swig of her drink. The band is playing something fast and cheerful now, the singer’s voice booms in the small room, people are standing up to dance. The energy is contagious, something almost electric in the air. It’s weird, seeing the people of Mantle laughing and dancing, when Yang’s mostly witnessed dull anger and hopelessness since they landed in Atlas.

A light touch on her shoulder brings Yang’s attention back to Blake. “Should we join them?” Blake asks, indicating the dance floor with a tiny tilt of the head. Yang responds by plucking Blake’s drink from her hand, setting both bottles of soda down on the counter, and leading a smiling Blake closer to the stage.

“Do you know how to dance to this kind of music?” Blake whisper-yells in Yang’s ear as they push their way through the crowd of dancers. Around them, couples are holding hands, spinning each other, feet moving in intricate steps, the more adventurous ones throwing their partner high in the air before catching them back by the waist.

Yang grins. “Yeah, it’s the atlesian swing. I’ll teach you the basics, I’m kind of a pro,” she says, smugly, before she takes Blake’s hands in hers. Another of those heart-flutters - this one fizzling down to her stomach like a jolt of electricity - takes the breath out of her. Holding hands with Blake is nothing new, but Yang’s blood thumps in her ears nonetheless. Blake is staring at her, golden-eyed, face framed by her dark curls. Beautiful.

Yang licks her lips, her smug smile long gone. Suddenly, it all feels very real: the two of them, touching, dancing together. The last time Yang danced with anyone, it was also with Blake, and she’d felt equally dizzy afterwards, though at the time she’d attributed the strange sensation to Beacon’s stuffy ballroom.

Now she knows it’s merely Blake’s effect on her.

Blake squeezes her fingers. “I thought you were going to teach me something.” Her voice is teasing, her eyes knowing. Yang’s cheeks feel too warm. She clears her throat.

“I’m bracing myself,” she jokes. “When it comes to dance, I know first-hand the kind of student you are, Belladonna. I gotta prepare for the worst.”

“A student is only ever as good as her teacher,” Blake retorts wisely. Yang shakes her head, amused by the jab at her expense, before pulling Blake closer to her.

“Follow my lead, smartass, and try not to stomp on my poor feet too often,” she grumbles. Blake bites the inside of her cheek, trying, and failing, not to smile.

She shows Blake the easiest steps, and they start dancing, giggling every time they bump into each other gracelessly. Yang catches a glimpse of Flynt and Neon in the crowd. They look flawless, each movement precise yet fluid. There’s no questioning who the better dancers are, but Yang can’t find it in herself to envy them. How could she, when Blake looks so _cute_ , holding onto her tightly, biting down on her lip in concentration while she follows the pattern Yang taught her? How wonderful, to have _fun_ , with no need to prove anything, no underlying tension.

For the first time in a very long time, they’re allowed to just _be_ together. Yang watches with a smile as Blake twirls, on wobbly legs, strands of hair sticking to her forehead. She pulls Blake back to her, one arm circling around her waist, just as the song ends. The crowd erupts in applause. Yang looks down at Blake. She’s flushed, a little sweaty, panting. There’s a dark smear of smudged eyeliner underneath her left eye. Her pulse is beating fast, visible under the soft skin of her throat. Yang’s heart-flutter problem grows worse. She’s no longer walking on that imaginary tightrope ; she’s running.

“How did I do?”

“You were great,” Yang replies, sincerely, as the band starts playing a new, slower song.

Blake smiles. She raises a hand, cupping Yang’s jaw carefully. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Everything.”

It’s a whisper, barely loud enough to hear between the music and the cacophony of voices surrounding them, yet it lodges itself directly into Yang’s heart. Blake has always had perfect aim.

Yang swallows, hesitant. Blake’s palm is soft and warm against her skin. There is so much she wants to ask - do you feel it too, everything I feel for you? The relief and the trust and the safety? The wonder at how far we’ve come, and the longing for something more?

She doesn’t know where to start, but Blake is looking her in the eye, vulnerable, open, brave. And Yang thinks that maybe she’ll say it all, tonight, right here and now.

She licks her lips. “Blake…”

The plaintive ring of Mantle’s Grimm alarm interrupts her, filling the club abruptly, replacing saxophone and piano and the singer’s velvety voice with the shrill sound of imminent danger.

Someone pats Yang’s arm. It’s Neon, brow knitted in worry, looking utterly serious for once. “Something’s going on. We better go help out.”

Well, so much for enjoying a night off.

***

“ _We are gonna have fun tonight_ , she said,” Blake huffs, throwing Gambol Shroud at the Beowulf barreling towards her in the narrow avenue. She pulls the trigger from afar, transforms the weapon back into a blade, swings it neatly. The Beowulf looks surprised as its head separates from its body, rolling onto the asphalt.

Yang sends a round of fire bullets into the torso of a giant Manticore flying above them. The Grimm explodes in flames and disintegrates before it even touches the ground. “What, are you _not_ having fun?”

“I’m just saying, you jinxed it.”

Yang snorts. She lets Blake’s banter alleviate some of the worry that’s been painfully squeezing her ribs ever since they were given their orders by the Ace Ops. Clover was direct, to the point: an attack down in Mantle, several people murdered, Jacques Schnee’s surprise victory, the subsequent Grimm incursion. Once in possession of their weapons, they were to protect their perimeter of Mantle until told otherwise.

She tried calling Ruby of course, but her sister must be too busy to answer her scroll. No words from Weiss either. Thanks to Ironwood’s new tech, at least Yang can monitor their aura levels, which are both staying reassuringly green.

“Hey,” Blake says, walking up next to Yang in the empty street. There’s no Grimm in sight, but the alarms are still blaring. The night is not over yet. “I’m sure they’re fine.”

Yang nods, swallowing the lump in her throat. “Yeah.” A hand slides into her own, squeezing her fingers twice. Blake bumps her forehead against Yang’s shoulder, briefly, before pulling back. There are dark bruises under her eyes now - they’ve been fighting for the better part of the night, and it’s starting to show, in the tense line of Blake’s neck, in the way her ears are drooping, just a bit more than usual.

Before Yang can say something incredibly cheesy, like _how come you still look so beautiful after fighting Grimms for hours_ , a pack of dark creatures appears around the corner, charging in their direction.

Blake unsheathes her sword. “I bet I can kill twice more of these than you in half the time.”

“Aww!” Yang says, grinning, ”I _knew_ you were having fun after all!”

This is not at all what Yang had in mind for their night off. But any moment she gets to spend with Blake, whether they’re dancing or fighting monsters, is a win in her book.

***

Dawn colors the streets of Mantle in purple hues when they finally make it back to Atlas Academy. After a long debrief with Winter, who looks like she’s about ready to commit patricide, Blake and Yang are finally allowed to retire for the night.

They don’t speak on their way to the dorms. They’re both preoccupied, now that the adrenaline has worn off, the night’s tragic events heavy on their minds. With Jacques on the council, the massacre of Robyn’s followers, and Penny unjustly blamed for it, the situation can only grow from bad to worse.

Yang yawns, hard enough that she feels something pop in her jaw. She glances at Blake. The sound of their steps on the polished marble floors of Atlas Academy echoes like disjointed heartbeats in the silent halls. Yang notices the way Blake’s hand keeps curling into a fist at her side, and she takes it in hers, aching to comfort her in some way.

Blake’s lips twist in a small smile. They hold hands the rest of the way.

They find Weiss already in the dorm room, disheveled, with streaks of dirt across her dress, but _okay_. Some of the deep-seated, irrational fear crushing Yang’s chest dissipates.

“You’re okay,” she says, looking at Weiss. It sounds a little bit like a question. And then, without actually giving her time to answer, she envelops Weiss in a bear hug, squeezing her tight.

“Yang,” Weiss whines, her voice muffled by Yang’s embrace, “I’m _fine_! Let me go, you big oaf.”

But Weiss’s hands grip the back of Yang’s jacket, and she sinks into the hug despite her protests. Blake joins in, one arm around Yang’s waist, the other around Weiss’s shoulders. They hold onto each other for a minute, until Weiss extricates herself from the two of them.

“I’m glad you’re both okay, too,” she says, softer now. “Is Ruby still…?”

“Stuck in Ironwood’s office? Yep.” Yang shrugs off her bomber jacket, dropping it carelessly onto the back of the desk chair. “Nora and Ren, too.”

Blake shakes her head. “I can’t imagine what they’re feeling. Witnessing such a horrible attack, and not being able to do anything about it…” She leans against the wall, looking down as she starts tiredly unzipping her coat.

Weiss is standing still in the middle of the room, arms crossed against her chest, eyes narrowed in disbelief and something that looks dangerously close to anger. “My father won. He _won_. That doesn’t make any sense.”

Having chucked her boots under the desk, Yang discards her socks as well, throwing them in their collective laundry basket. Then she pads up to Weiss, barefoot, and lays a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. We’ll figure it out, Weiss. But right now, I think the best we can do is take a shower and get some sleep.”

Weiss sighs. “Right.” A pause, and she wrinkles her nose at Yang. “A shower would be nice. You _stink_.”

“Wow. Uncalled for.”

“But not _totally_ inaccurate,” Blake teases, with a chuckle. Yang doesn’t dignify the comment with a response, grabbing her towel, and grumbling that people who gang up on a friend should expect some future retribution.

They all walk to the showers together. Atlas Academy offers the best possible living quarters to its students and guests, including state of the art bathrooms. Each shower stall is spacious and clean, with perfect water pressure, a variety of soaps and shampoos, abstract art on the floor tiles. You really can’t do better than this, but it only makes Yang miss Beacon more. Just like Atlas's orderly, reasonable bedding arrangement makes her miss their old bunk beds.

Beacon was home, in a way Atlas isn’t.

Oh well. Hot water is still hot water. Yang steps under the shower, closing her eyes, letting the night wash away. Hard to believe that a mere eight hours ago, she was dancing with Blake, laughing, carefree.

“I guess we weren’t allowed even one night of fun after all,” she mumbles to the shower screen, pouring some high quality, though bland, military-issued shampoo into her palm.

She’s the first one back in their dorm room, which doesn’t surprise her. Weiss and Blake both take forever in the bathroom. What does make her jolt to a stop, however, is the sight of her sister standing in the room, her back to the door, looking smaller than usual with her shoulders drooping from exhaustion. Her red cape is sporting brand new tears.

“Ruby?”

At the sound of Yang’s voice, Ruby turns around. She looks shaken, and sad, though she does smile at Yang. Yang doesn’t smile back, mouth opened in shock, eyes locked onto Ruby’s hands. They’re covered in dried blood.

Ruby follows her sister’s gaze, and she hastily hides her hands inside her sleeves. “It’s not mine,” she says, softly. “I’m okay.”

“Okay,” Yang says, a little strangled.

“Blake and Weiss… ?”

“They’re showering. I’m sure they’ll be done sometime in the next century,” Yang jokes, trying to lighten the mood, now that she knows for certain that her sister is alive and well.

Ruby snorts. She rubs her eyes, taking a step towards Yang. “I should shower too. Ugh, but I’m so _tired_.”

There’s a whiny quality to her tone that reminds Yang of Patch, of Ruby as a child. It’s comforting, unexpectedly. Yang smiles. “Go get cleaned up. Weiss is gonna have a fit if she sees you like this.” She pulls Ruby in an affectionate side hug. “She called me _stinky_ , earlier. Me, who’s only ever smelled of sunshine and roses!”

“Very sweaty roses,” Ruby says, and squirms away, laughing, when Yang pinches her side.

“Everyone’s a critic, today, huh,” she declares, dramatically, letting herself fall backward onto Weiss’s bed. 

Ruby grabs a towel and clean pajamas from their shared wardrobe. "How was your date with Blake?” she asks, kicking her shoes off.

“Not a date,” Yang replies, eyes closed.

“Huh huh.”

She hears the sound of the door opening, closing, and silence. Yang is alone in the room. She stretches her legs, yawns, feeling drained but unwilling to go to sleep before her teammates come back.

Her mind wanders to the start of the night, the Mantle dance club, the Sunflower Pop, the lively music, Blake. The way she looked at Yang as they danced, the sound of her laughter, the feel of her palm on Yang’s cheek.

Not a date, but _something_. Yang exhales, slowly. She’s too tired to examine her feelings - it’s well into the morning, now, the weak northern sunlight pouring through the windows into the room.

Somebody comes in, and Yang opens her eyes, sitting up. It’s Blake, clad in her Atlas pajamas, face scrubbed clean and make-up free, hair still a bit wet, curling at the edges. She’s beautiful, as always, Yang thinks, hazily, sleep-deprived, before she realizes she’s staring, and hurriedly averts her eyes.

Blake plops onto the bed next to her, casually, rubbing her eyes. “I ran into Ruby in the bathroom. She looked like she went through hell.”

Yang hums in response, acutely aware of the way Blake’s thigh is brushing against hers. It shouldn’t be a thing - they were just _dancing_ together - but this feels more intimate, the two of them on a bed in their pajamas. Her heart flutters again, and just like that, she’s back on the tightrope. Yang swallows, head reeling, unbalanced, unable to focus on anything but Blake’s warm body next to her, so familiar and so completely novel at the same time.

Maybe she should say something. Figure out if Blake is on the other side of that tightrope, equally afraid of falling. But a look at Blake’s face, worn out and pale, tells her this isn’t the right time. They’re both exhausted. It can wait.

The door opens to reveal Weiss, who immediately glares at the two of them. “What are you doing on my bed?”

“Your mattress is just way softer than any of ours,” Yang lies, deadpan. “Clearly this is some case of favoritism.”

Weiss rolls her eyes, but there’s no bite in the gesture. She steals Ruby’s blanket off of the top bunk, wrapping it around herself before gingerly sitting next to Blake. The three of them wait for Ruby to come back, half-asleep, the room silent except for a yawn here and there. Thankfully, Ruby isn’t one to take her time in the shower.

When she comes in, she looks a little better than when Yang first saw her. She climbs onto the bed next to Yang, leaning against her side as she asks how everyone is doing. Even though they’re alone in the dorm room, they speak in low voices, huddling close. It feels better, that way - quiet, just the four of them piled up on one bed, safest with each other.

Eventually, the conversation comes to a halt, and Weiss prods Blake’s thigh with her bare foot. “Alright, everyone get off my bed now or I’m using a glyph to _throw_ you in yours.”

Snorting at her grumpiness, Yang stretches her arms above her head ; the muscles of her shoulders and neck ache, her joints crack ominously. Yeah, time to get some shuteye.

She grins lazily, flexing a bicep with flourish. “No need for a glyph when you got these _guns_!” And, proving her point, she slides off the bed, grabs Ruby around the waist, and hoists her up effortlessly, literally launching her into the top bunk.

While Ruby giggles, delighted, and gives Yang a thumbs-up, Weiss and Blake exchange tired looks. “You did this to yourself,” Blake says, leaning in to give Weiss a light kiss on the cheek, before she pushes herself off the bed as well.

Still grinning, Yang closes the blinds and turns off the lights. She already has one foot on the ladder to her own bunk when a hand on her knee stops her. In the semi-darkness, Blake’s eyes glow like two faraway stars.

“Would you…?” Blake stops herself, voice trailing off. But Yang understands anyway - she can read the rest of her sentence in the way Blake’s body seems tense and rigid, even under the sheets, her back pressed against the wall.

Without a word, she lets go of the ladder, and slides into Blake’s bed instead.

Blake inhales sharply. Yang lies flat on her back, very still, her head on Blake’s pillow. Blake is so close, she can feel the warmth of her breath, a little damp, on her cheek. She’s so close, their arms are touching, bare skin against bare skin. Yang’s heartbeat rings in her ears, louder than the Mantle Grimm alarm. And there’s that damn flutter again, and the vertigo, and _oh, Blake is moving, Blake is shifting closer, Blake is draping her arm across Yang’s stomach, burying her face in the crook of Yang’s neck_ …

“Is this alright?” Blake whispers in the dark.

Yang, who has stopped breathing entirely, whose heart is no longer pumping blood throughout her body but instead something that feels like pure electricity, lets out a small, undignified groan.

“I’m sorry. Tonight was a lot and I… I just wanna be close to you. But you don’t have to stay if you don’t want to…”

The vulnerability in Blake’s voice cuts through everything else. All the tension coiling in Yang’s body disappears, leaving her only with the need to make sure Blake is okay. Yang cups the back of Blake’s neck, gently, and runs her fingers through the soft hair of her nape. “Of course it’s alright. I understand. I’m here.”

They stay quiet for a long time after that, so long in fact that Yang dozes off. The room is completely silent, save for Ruby’s light snores and Weiss’s regular breathing. Blake is warm, the bed is soft, Yang is exhausted. Falling asleep holding her feels like the most natural thing in the world.

“Yang,” Blake murmurs, sleepily, breaking the silence.

“Mmh?”

“I had fun. Before everything went wrong - I had fun, with you.” Blake’s hand finds Yang’s, interlacing their fingers. “Just wanted you to know, since I’m not sure we’ll get another night off anytime soon.”

Yang hides her smile in Blake’s hair, dropping a small kiss in between her ears. “Thank you. I had fun with you too.”

She knows there’s still a lot left unsaid between them, but she’s in no hurry. When it comes to Blake, she’s willing to dance on that tightrope for as long as it takes.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the song Tightrope, from _The Greatest Showman_.


End file.
